Horrors of Hospitals
by tarsus4survivor
Summary: Tony is minding his own business in his hospital room when Clint drops in and claims the doctors have it out for him. Tony is inclined to agree.
1. Chapter 1

Clint drops through the vent with less grace than usual, knees buckling when he hits the floor.

Tony jolts at abrupt sound, sitting up in his shield hospital bed. "What are you doing? Aren't you supposed to be in medical?"

"I am in medical." Clint scoots across the floor to a chair and uses it to pull himself up, one arm pressed against his lower left side.

Tony rolls his eyes. "I mean in your own room, getting stitched up or whatever." He watches Clint warily, scared he's going to collapse into a heap on the floor, but Tony has a bad leg and there's not much he could do to stop his friend's fall from this position.

"Doctors have it out for me," says Clint, and he hobbles around the room using the wall as support, moving around to close the blinds.

Tony shakes his head. "They do not." He purses his mouth, head tilting, "Or actually, this—" he gestures one-handed to Clint, his other hand in a sling— "could definitely be why."

"No." Clint shudders a little and Tony frowns. "Seriously," Clint continues, "I think it was something about when Loki was… you know." Clint finds the corner of the room and slumps down. Then he glances to his left, where cabinets jut out from the wall. He scoots until he's pressed next to them.

"Controlling you to attack Shield."

"Yeah. That." Clint curls a little tighter into his hideaway.

Tony is concerned now. Concerned and angry that someone would use that against Clint. Would blame him for it and make him paranoid enough that he would retreat to the corner of Tony's room—through the vents, while injured. "They say something?"

Clint shakes his head carefully, the bruise on his jaw shifting colors with the light. "Not exactly." He grimaces, and his hand shifts a little and there's a flash of red.

Tony feels a jolt of panic. "Dude, you're still bleeding. You didn't let them stitch you up?"

"They didn't want to stitch me up." He shudders again and Tony's frown deepens.

"Are you cold?"

"Little bit." Clint peeks around his cabinets. "You see anyone out the door?"

Tony glances. "No."

Clint scoots out a little. He digs through the nearest cabinet, pulling out a gauze pad. He lifts his shirt and carefully presses it down.

Tony gets a glimpse of tattered flesh and black lines. His eyebrows furrow. "_Did_ they stitch you up? You tore 'em?"

"Tony, you're not hearing me. Those guys had it out for me. They didn't—they—" He goes back to pressing up against the corner of the cabinets. "They weren't nice."

"Weren't nice? What does that—" he cuts off as footsteps pound down the hallway. Someone slams the door open.

Tall, in doctor's scrubs, arm bleeding from a cut. "You seen that little pissant?!"

In his peripheral, because Tony doesn't dare turn, he sees Clint huddling tighter against the wall.

Tony glares at the man. "Who are you talking about?"

"Barton, you idiot. Have you seen Barton?!"

"Oh. That pissant. No. Heard he was still getting stitched up." He watches carefully for the man's reaction and isn't disappointed with the flash of pride that curls the man's mouth into a smirk. "Stitched up," he says, half-chuckling, "Exactly. Call for help if you see him. He's delusional from blood loss, so don't listen to anything he says." He closes the door and pounds away.

Tony starts talking a moment later. "OMG, that was creepy. That's the guy you're avoiding? Do I need to call the team?" He says it mostly joking, because everyone knows Hawkeye could take any of these other Shield goons any day of the week—even injured—and he hates having others step in to fight his battles.

But Clint shakes and folds tighter and says, voice small, "Maybe."

Something cold and painful unfolds in Tony's gut. "Holy crap, are you actually scared right now?" If Clint is scared, Tony is terrified. "What did he do to you? You okay?" He's grabbing for his phone even as he spits off questions, ordering Jarvis to assemble the team and get them here.

"I'd rather not be found by them." Clint is staring off to his left like he can see the door through the cabinets. He doesn't offer more than that.

Tony doesn't push it. "Okay. You need medical still?" He doesn't wait for a response. "Jarvis, make sure you get Banner and a fully stocked quinjet, because we're gonna need it."

He barely hears Jarvis responding, his focus entirely on Clint. "What do you—" Tony starts.

The door bursts open again and this time Tony is caught mid-sentence, eyes giving away the archer's position. It's a different man, but still broad and tall and threatening, his face angry and cold. He stalks into the room, taking in the scene, finding Clint almost immediately.

His grin is almost predatory. "We didn't finish your check-up."

Tony is scrambling to get out from the covers and to his feet, not liking this at all. But then there's a flash of metal flying from Hawkeye's hand and the doctor cries out. Blood spurts from his leg. Clint is up and somehow across the room in the span of a second, legs unsteady beneath him. He kicks a chair over and climbs back into the vent he first dropped out of, ignoring Tony's, "Clint, wait!" as Tony gets his feet on the floor and tries to stand. Clint vanishes.

The doctor struggles upright, one hand clutching his thigh. He barrels toward the vent.

That is so not gonna fly. Tony cuts him off, glad it only requires half a step. The least he can do is buy Clint time. "Leave him alone."

The man glares, eyes like steel, still clutching his thigh. "Move."

"No."

The man shoves at Tony, and sad to say Tony goes straight down. The man pulls out a phone and calls someone, "He's in the vents."

Tony rolls back up to sitting. "Leave him the hell alone or you'll have a whole team of super-powered assassins and gods on your hands. Not to mention me. And oh, yeah, your're fired."

The man kicks him—out of the way because oh, he's still trying to get to the vent.

Tony kicks back. But then the man is under the vent, head up, and Clint drops out right on top of him. They crash onto the floor and Clint rolls off but he's clutching his side and his movements are jerky and slow.

The other man is groaning, rolling onto his side.

"Clint, you were supposed to be getting away! I was buying you time!" Tony twists onto his side, trying to get the leverage to get up with a broken arm and fairly non-functional leg.

"I wasn't gonna…" god, the archer's panting, "leave you with him." Clint struggles half to his feet, bracing all his weight on the wall.

The other man staggers upright. He spins around and locks onto Clint.

The door bangs open and Tony is hoping for the cavalry but it's the wrong side. The man from before, cut on his arm, closes the door behind him and they've got Clint pinned in the corner. Tony's talking to Jarvis and hitting emergency buttons on the bed and looking around for a weapon to give the archer. He's freaking out, basically. "Clint, crap, why didn't you get away?!"

Clint has a card up his sleeve—like literally a card. Not even a playing card, it's like a get well soon card or something. He throws it like it's a freakin' ninja star and it slices one man's cheek and causes his head to turn and Clint presses his advantage, diving away from the wall and toward the other side of the room—right where the cabinets are. Tony's loser leg means he can't do much more than fall down or watch. Clint opens one of the cabinets and comes up with a handful of loaded syringes—heaven knows what's inside—a couple of pens, and a clipboard.

The man is a blur. Given the crack of one goon's knee, Tony's pretty sure Clint just broke it with the clipboard before slamming a syringe into the man's already wounded thigh. He goes down.

But Clint is way slower and less agile than normal and the other man shoots him and oh, Jesus Christ, he just shot him. But there's no explosion of blood. Clint sways. Sways and topples and crawls toward the other corner of the room—Tony's corner. He pulls a dart from his arm, oh thank god, they probably just tranquilized him. Tony throws his tray at the man and he staggers, but then Clint rolls onto his back and throws his pens and they end up embedded in the other guy's legs and he crashes down, moaning.

"Throw it through his throat next time, what are you doing?! You're an assassin so just kill the guy, trust me, I don't mind!"

Clint's stopped moving. Oh no.

"Clint?"

Clint groans and Tony releases a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Tony drops down so he can crawl-scoot over to Clint.

Clint flinches away, eyes wide—his pupils are dilated—hands up to shield his face.

"Clint, It's me, it's Tony, can you get up?" Tony's thinking they need to make their escape right about now.

Clint jerks away from him and into the wall with a horrible gut-wrenching little whine. "Don't. Don't."

Tony follows slowly, good arm up, palm out when he's close enough that he doesn't need it to inch himself forward. He's feeling the burn of his injuries very clearly. "Clint. It's Tony, I'm not gonna hurt you, come on, Legolas." He's hoping the nickname will help. It doesn't.

"Please," says Clint, curling into the wall, exposing his back to shield his middle—and oh, man, Tony's never heard him beg for anything. "Please don't."

The man with writing utensils in his legs is seething, and he's reaching for the gun he had—the one he dropped—what did he shoot Clint with? He's way too close to getting it.

"Clint." There's too much emotion in Tony's voice to be crammed into one word.

Clint turns. He unwraps his arms from around his head, bringing them down just a little. "Tony?" he asks, voice small and wet and shit, it's like a punch to the gut.

"Yeah. Yeah, it's me. Can you get up?"

Clint nods, eyeing Tony warily. It's like watching a newborn colt but he gets up and stays up, balance precarious.

"Run," Tony tells him, "Just run."

"You… have to… come."

"No, Jesus, they're not after me. I'll be fine." The man is brushing the handle of the gun with outstretched fingers—he's scooting closer to it. "Run like hell, find the team, take to the vents, whatever, but get out and get safe."

Clint just stares at him, eyes pinched. His head shakes minutely. "Tony?"

Shit. "Yeah. Go, Clint, get out."

He doesn't. He doesn't and the man gets the gun and cocks it and Clint turns his confused gaze over to him. A syringe slips into his hand. He throws it as the man takes aim and the dart goes into the wall. The man falls with the needle in his chest.

Clint slides down. "Tony?"

Tony can't breathe. "Yeah?" he asks, voice strangled.

"I shouldn't've come in here, I don't think."

That makes Tony turn from the scarily still body and to Clint, whose pupils are dilated, his hands shaking, his side seeping blood through the shirt. "No." Tony is firm. "No, with crap like this, you come. You find your team."

Clint swallows. "I'm… my side hurts… what… what's… Tony?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's me, I'm right here. You got hurt, remember, fighting dinosaur-monsters in the subway." That doesn't sound halfway believable, does it? "You remember?"

He looks awfully disoriented. Tony scoots closer.

"My head is fuzzy. I can't—my side hurts."

And cue the team barging in.

"You're late," Tony says, eyes on Clint.

Steve and Nat are at the forefront. Tony puts up a hand to ward them off. Both stop immediately. Clint's eyes are flicking around wildly, his feet kicking the floor to push himself further against the wall.

"They dosed him with something," Tony says to the room, "he's disoriented. Took him a minute to recognize me."

Nat sits on the ground a few feet away, stance relaxed. "Barton," she says, and Clint's head spins toward her.

Steve sits. Bruce and Thor are clearly visible in the doorway, both looking concerned.

"Don't," Clint says, hands twisting up to shield his head again—one hand, because the other stays pressed against his side.

"Don't what?" Tony's never heard Nat so soft.

"Please don't."

"Clint," Tony tries, "You know who I am?"

"Tony."

"Yep. Can I come closer?"

Clint shakes his head. Tony gets the feeling that if he could, he'd scoot farther away.

"You want to get out of here? Go to the tower?"

"Yeah," Clint says, head nodding, body uncurling just slightly.

"We could find a couple wheelchairs and I'll race you to the quinjet, how's that sound?"

Clint tenses up. "I can walk." He's watching the others like he's not sure he knows who they are. Like he's worried they're about to attack him.

Tony gestures to the closest two—Nat and Cap. "You know who these guys are?"

Clint frowns, eyes squinting, head tilted. "I'm not sure. Maybe."

Nat says something in Russian and Clint's eyebrows unpinch, "Tasha."

His head moves over to Steve. "And… a captain."

Steve nods, hands still on his lap. He's careful not to make himself look threatening.

Clint turns back to Tony. "My side hurts."

"Yeah, I know. You're hurt. It's bleeding. My friend can help you. He's your friend too." Tony tries to gesture Bruce forward, "Can he look at your side?"

Clint eyes Bruce suspiciously. "Not here," he finally says. "I don't… it's not safe here."

"Thor," says Tony, and why is he the only one talking? "Why don't you go find us a couple wheelchairs?" Thor nods and sprints away.

"I want to walk," says Clint, fast and high.

"Okay. But I need a wheelchair and I'm actually so high maintenance that I'd like options, okay? No one's gonna force you into the chair."

Clint relaxes back a little. "Okay."

"So uh… maybe we should put a few more gauze pads on that wound before we venture out to the quinjet, what do you think?"

Clint's head turns. He scoots over toward the cabinets, the whole team watching warily, and he opens one. He sneaks out at least five pads, layering three on his wound and two more on a leg Tony hadn't even noticed was bleeding. He closes the cabinet door carefully, like he's afraid to make a noise, then looks back at Tony.

"Awesome." If Tony's voice is shaky, no one comments on it. "Come back towards me, okay? I don't—those guys might wake up."

Clint looks towards them. Another syringe slips into his hand. He peers at it but his eyebrows just furrow his face into a frown. He tosses it to Bruce, who jolts so badly Tony's glad he catches it without a Hulk incident. "I don't know," Clint says, in lieu of explanation. His head tilts up at Bruce. "You're a doctor, right?"

"Yeah," Bruce says, "sort of." He glances down at the syringe. "You hit them with one of these?"

Tony nods.

Bruce sets it on the counter. "They're not gonna wake up for a while."

Tony realizes just then how much that had been worrying at the back of his mind. "Awesome." He reaches over to where the dart dropped and picks it up, tossing it to Cap, "This is what they hit him with. There's probably more loaded into that gun." He points. Natasha's eyes settle on it, but she doesn't go for it. Not with Clint shuddering between her and it.

Thor comes back, quieter than Tony is expecting. "Clint, you good to go? To the quinjet and the tower?"

Clint nods.

"Let's see you stand, come on."

Clint hesitates. Dammit. But he puts a hand against the wall and pushes up in little steps. He's hunched over the counter, shaking and breathing heavily.

Tony stands with Steve's help. Steve backs out the doorway to give Clint space and Nat wheels in one of the chairs. Tony shakes his head at it. "The other one looked way cooler." So Nat carefully wheels the chair against the wall, facing Clint. She goes out and gets the other chair and helps Tony settle into it.

Clint is looking at the empty wheelchair. He's barely standing.

"You can use it if you want to," says Tony.

Clint shakes his head a little, but he goes to take a step forward and his leg gives out and all his weight is on his arms on the counter. Tony 'accidentally' kicks the empty chair closer while awkwardly wheeling with one arm.

Clint gets his feet back under him He grabs the chair and pulls it closer before he falls into it.

Tony grins. "Awesome. You wanna go first, last, or in the middle?"

Clint gives him a strange look, like he hadn't expected the choice.

"Can I go with just you and…" He pauses for a moment, face pinched, "Bruce?"—Tony nods and Clint looks relieved— "behind me?"

"Sounds like a plan. Bruce, come push me." Nat heads out into the hallway with Steve and Thor. She disappears.

Clint doesn't seem to notice, too engaged with wheeling himself forward and seriously, can't Shield afford automatic wheelchairs over manual ones? Tony is one hundred percent willing to donate to the cause.

Clint sets the pace. He's struggling but no one wants to push him. Steve offers to help, but Clint huddles and stiffens with a sharp 'no' and after that they just trail down the hall, Steve and Thor listening to keep track of how far Clint is behind them. Then Clint stops. A door is open to his left and a woman is walking out of it. Doctor's scrubs.

"Clint?" Tony asks. In front of them, Steve and Thor stop, but they're just far enough that the woman doesn't see them. She smiles when she sees Clint, but it's not a comforting smile. It's bitter, fake, pasted on. Clint turns his chair and wheels in reverse, keeping his front to her.

"There you are," she says, stepping closer. "You need a few more stitches." She calls back into the room and Tony can see two men inside look up and stand. She steps toward Clint again but then Steve is there, blocking her bodily.

"You no longer have the clearance to treat him."

She bristles. "I don't have the clearance? You shouldn't even have access to this facility. You're not even a member."

"Please go back inside the room and close the door."

"No." Tony doesn't even see her hand move. But she hits Cap with something and he starts to spasm. He drops to one knee. The woman breaks past—or would have, if Cap hadn't kicked her leg out. The men inside the room are at the doorway, running out, and Thor gets in front of them. All it takes is one punch.

Steve pulls wires from his chest—taser, she freakin' tasered him—and the woman stays down when he stands to tower over her. Nat, appearing from nowhere—inside the room—is all too happy to knock her unconscious. Tony uses his phone to find their names. They make it to the quinjet without further incident, though Clint is growing weaker and shaking even more. He makes it up the ramp and into the jet and immediately breaks for the wall, close to the back corner.

Bruce brings Tony up on the opposite side.

"Clint?"

"Yeah?"

"Can Bruce check your side now? Here, where it's safe?"

"After we take off," he says, and the Avengers are a bundle of nerves until they finally clear the ground.

Bruce steps around to the side of Tony's chair. "Can I come closer?"

Clint nods, but he's watching Bruce carefully, like the man is a snake about to strike.

Bruce approaches at a painfully slow pace, stopping when Clint tenses and leans backward. He splays his hands out, showing that they're empty. That he means no harm. "This okay? Can I keep coming?"

Clint seems grateful that Bruce would bother asking. He relaxes a little. "Sure."

Bruce breaks forward again. He drops down to his knees beside Clint's wheelchair. "Can I check your side?"

It takes a moment. A long fucking moment, but Clint nods.

"You want to lift your shirt or do you want me to?"

"You."

Bruce reaches forward. He asks Clint for permission at every step. He lifts the shirt up and Tony's breath catches. Bruce's hands shake as he lifts the gauze pads and reveals the wound and Tony can't decide if he wants to puke, cry, or go back and murder those assholes.

Bruce hovers his hand over the torn skin and lines of black thread. Clint was right before; they didn't stitch the wound. They stitched around it. Through skin that was completely unhurt, stitched around the wound in a spiral that keeps looping bigger and bigger and it doesn't stop until halfway up his ribcage, dipping just below his pant line on the other side. His wound looks completely untreated, but inflamed and bleeding and not quite right.

"Jesus," somebody says. Tony's pretty sure it's Cap.

"They…" Clint's voice is so small, "cleaned it with salt."

Tony has to close his eyes. "Oh my god."

Bruce looks green. He's breathing carefully, fingers curling just slightly in Clint's shirt as he holds it up.

He drops it down, pinching the bridge of his nose. Clint watches him warily.

"Do we know what he was hit with?" Bruce asks the room.

Tasha answers. Tony misses it. He gets what's important and that's that it won't interact with pain meds, which Clint clearly needs.

He wants Tony to give them to him—won't trust anyone else. So Tony gets pushed forward with a syringe in hand and carefully presses the plunger into Clint's arm.

The relief is palpable, and half the tension that Tony had taken for fear but now realizes was pain drops from Clint's shoulders.

"You should…" Bruce's hands hover, "Probably lay down. There's a cot…"

Clint doesn't respond.

"I can pull those threads out, and…" he hesitates, fingers at the edges of the wound because it needs stitched, they all know it does, "bandage your wound."

"Weren't nice," Tony mumbles, because he's just now remembering what Clint told him. "Weren't freakin' nice. That's the most ginormous understatement I have ever heard. Weren't nice. Jesus Christ, I'm gonna throw up." He's trying to get names and pull footage from Shield cameras because how the fuck did this happen and why are those people alive and working still?

Clint chooses the floor over the cot. Probably because the cot has straps and he's scared they're gonna tie him down and hurt him.

Bruce helps him from the chair and to the floor—he doesn't want anyone else and Tony wouldn't be much help—and then helps him lift his shirt off and supports his shoulder and back and lays him down flat. Thor gives his cape for a pillow—because this jet is not fully stocked and there's no pillows or blankets—okay, there are blankets, but there are no real comfort items anywhere. Clint takes a blanket and it ends up over his legs. It's just a cut. Just a cut on his leg that was bleeding, and nothing serious thank god.

Bruce hesitates over the first stitch. "Do you wanna… we could put you out for this…"

Clint shakes his head. "Just get them out."

It takes an hour. To pull them out. It takes a fucking hour. And the Avengers are useless to do anything but watch as Clint jolts with pain and fear, face tied into a grimace, pupils still blown wide. He has to stop Bruce halfway through because he starts to freak out. His hands come up to push Bruce's away. "Stop, stop. Please don't."

"It's okay." Bruce pulls back. "It's okay. I'm getting them out, but if you want to take a break, that's fine. That's fine, I'm stopping."

Clint takes a few shuddery little breaths, fingers just ghosting over his torn skin. He's lifting his head to look down at it, and his breathing steadies a little. It's clear Bruce was removing the stitches and not putting more in. He lays back down. "Okay," he mutters. "Okay." He nods at Bruce, "Okay."

Bruce settles back in to slice the rest.

"Thank you," says Clint, he's almost panting, his fingers shaking. "Thank you." He passes out.

When Bruce finishes, he can't bring himself to stitch. He butterfly bandages the stab wound in Clint's side and puts more bandages over it. He cleans the rest of Clint's torn skin and adds even more bandages.

They get to the tower. Steve carries Clint in. Thor pushes Tony. They take Clint to his room. Steve tucks him into the bed and none of them can bring themselves to leave.


	2. Chapter 2

It's three months later, mid-mission, when an arrow comes from nowhere, cementing itself into the brick wall beside Ironman's head. He jerks back. "What the—Hawkeye!" There's no response. Tony twists his head to look up at their archer's perch. Hawkeye is crouched at the edge of the roof, pointing to the side of his head. He's shaking it, 'no.'

"What? You lose your com?" Tony is already having Jarvis pull up a spare.

"Hawkeye?" Cap sounds out of breath. "Hawkeye, status."

There's no response. Clint is firing arrows almost faster than Tony can see, but they're lacking his usual commentary and guide.

"Tony," says Cap.

"I'm on it." Ironman is already flying up to Hawkeye's perch. He hands him the spare com, "Did it pop out, because I swear—"

Clint has his assassin face on. "I can't hear you." He puts the com in his ear. "EMP blast knocked out my com and hearing aids." Well now they can hear him, at least.

Tony opens his faceplate so Clint can see his lips. "You okay?"

Clint nods. His eyes flick past Tony, "Thor, on your six." He draws, threads, and shoots an arrow in one fluid movement.

Tony puts his mask up and takes off, back into the battle.

It's ten minutes later when Hawkeye's voice comes more sharply over the coms, "Shit."

Tony shoots the creature in front of him and looks up to find Clint. The building he's on is laced with cracks, pieces falling from the walls and roof. It's collapsing beneath him. "Oh shit." Tony blasts up but one of the creatures grabs his boot and yanks him down. Tony blasts the thing in the face but the others are swarming him.

"Hawkeye needs air support." That's Nat's voice over the coms.

Tony barrels up out of the swarm, but he's not gonna get there before the building gives out and everyone knows it. And then he's watching as Hawkeye runs toward the edge of the roof and leaps toward the nearest building, bow in hand, shooting an arrow at the wall. It smashes into the smooth concrete. Clint slams into the wall right above the arrow and slides down, snagging onto the weapon, giving himself something to use to hold himself up.

"Oh thank god." says Tony. "Clint, you clever little bastard." Tony is there a moment later, grabbing him around the torso, flying him up to the top. He sets him down on the roof, faceplate flipping up,

"You good?"

Clint rolls his neck, grimacing. He hit that wall hard. "Yeah. Cap needs backup."

Tony shoots up. "On it."

It's not until the fight is over and everyone's winding down that Tony realizes Clint is keeping his arm immobile. Shield brought the extraction so they're on a quinjet with a handful of doctors and Clint is sitting in the back corner with the eyes of a… well, a hawk.

Normally he fiddles with his bow-cleans it, adjusts it, checks the mechanism that changes out arrowheads. He's doing that now, but with only one hand and without looking, eyes following the doctors as they roam and bandage. They found him some hearing aids, at least, and he stared at them warily and then put them in like they were a bomb about to go off.

"This needs stitches," someone murmurs to Natasha, and Clint's head jerks toward them, eyes thin, form stiff. His hand twitches and a dagger manifests itself.

"Hey, Clint!" Tony exclaims, leaping up and prancing toward him. "How you doin', buddy, you need Bruce?" Tony plops down next to him.

Clint's gaze stays fixed on Nat. "Shoulder," he says, "It's fine, it can wait."

The doctor pulls out a suture kit and Clint's jaw shifts. His knuckles go white around the dagger as the doctor approaches skin with needle.

"Well it'll have to because Bruce, as you know, is in Malibu, but," Tony says, far too cheerily, "I have a whole horde of family doctors I can set you up with. All vetted and-"

"Thanks," Clint interrupts, "No."

Tony seriously debates going back to school to get a medical degree. He starts up a list of pros and cons in his head as he talks. "So that was fun today, huh?"

"So much fun," Clint deadpans. He twitches forward-the doctor draws the last stitch and ties off the thread. And Clint watches with deadly focus as they close up the suture kit.

Pro: might keep Clint from murdering anyone. "Funner than the giant house cats on the empire state building?"

Clint relaxes a fraction. "Funner than the blob monster that swallowed you whole. Good times, I'm telling you."

Con: Tony would actually have to treat _Clint_."Hahaha. I'd say it was funner than the fairy that tied you upside down to the dentist's office."

"It comes close," Clint says, and relaxes even more as the doctor moves to a different portion of the plane. His gaze roams and then latches onto the doctor in front of Thor.

"Concussion," Tony says, "he's fine."

"He doesn't need to stand that close," Clint mumbles. And yeah, okay, the doctor is practically on Thor's lap, but who could blame him?

Another doctor—there are only three, thank god—stands up from where he's crouched by Cap. Stands and turns and locks on Clint and Tony.

Tony shakes his head and makes a slicing motion at his throat. So does Clint. A very different one, using the dagger in his hand.

The doctor walks the other way.

Tony keeps talking. "Let's make a bet—thirty knives in Natasha's room. One hundred dollars."

"Two hundred."

"Dollars?"

"Knives. That is if we're including daggers and excluding anything longer than seven inches."

"I wanna change my guess," Tony blurts.

Clint just smirks and shakes his head. "Fine. But only if I can change mine too."

"To what?"

"Thirty."

"I hate you."


	3. Chapter 3

The next non-mediocre mission only has half the team. It's when Tony starts to wonder if it's all of shield that has it out for Clint and not just doctors.

"Just her room, not the whole apartment." Tony flies around the corner of the hallway, quickly working his way deeper into the building. "And we're not counting it if she's in there because god knows she has a whole mess of knives hidden on her person."

"You morons know I'm here, right?" Natasha's voice comes over the coms. She's at the other end of the building, waiting at a door.

Tony hits a dead end—a door that can't be opened or hacked from this side, needs to be accessed from a physical port in a different part of the building. He drops down, boots thudding onto the concrete. "I can neither confirm nor deny any such knowledge."

Tony can hear Clint's grin, "Just her room, no physical Widow."

"Sweet. I'm at the door, you guys almost there?" Tony shifts impatiently. They take too long and he might just blast through it.

"Almost got it." Napier's voice. The shield agent the director forced on them because he didn't want to trust them with something or other. He and Hawkeye should be through the wall soon.

"Just give us two seconds," says Clint. And a moment later Tony's door is sliding open.

Tony lets out a cheerful little, "Yes!" as he flies through. He blasts through a couple of soldiers or rebels or whatever and settles down at the computer. Time to stop those ships in the Pacific loaded with missiles before they blow up…whatever they're going to blow up. Japan, probably.

Tony is halfway done when he hears it. Clint swearing. "Napier what the—ahhh!"

"Hawkeye?" Nat's voice is sharp. Precise.

"Shit." Clint says the word over and over. Throws in a couple of worse words while Tony rushes to finish his task. Clint is breathing hard and letting out grunts like he's fighting someone.

"What?" Tony asks, voice not as controlled as he'd like.

"Napier, get—" Clint cuts off with a cry.

"I'm enroute to your location," Nat says.

Tony would be too if he could work any faster. "Clint, you got to give me something here. What's happening?"

Napier must have taken his com out because Tony can't hear anything from him.

"Shit. Loki! How many times do I have to tell you guys?! That was freakin' Loki!" Clint swears a few more times. And then he goes quiet. Dead quiet. No static to indicate a broken com. It's just quiet.

"Hawkeye?" Nat asks.

No response.

Dread fills Tony's stomach. He throws in a few more commands on the computer and then blasts into the air, shooting through the door and down the hallways. "Come on," he mutters, pushing himself to go faster. "Hawkeye?" Ironman zooms through the building.

He beats Natasha there. Blasts into the room. Clint is on the ground against the wall, pushing up with a grunt. "Knocked my com out," he says.

Ironman scans the room, arms up, palms out. "I got him, Widow," he says, and then to Clint, "Napier?"

Clint nods. He twists an arm reaching around his body to his back, somewhere just below the shoulder. His fingers come back bloody.

Tony swears. "Where is he?"

Clint bobs his head, shoving to his feet, grabbing his bow from the floor. His face is unreadable. "Back there." Behind the monitor stand.

Tony breaks forward, hovering around it. Napier's unmoving on the floor. Tony drops to the ground and flips up his faceplate. "Could have told me he was out."

"Wasn't sure he was." Clint is stiff. The only sign Tony has that he might be hurt.

"He attacked you?"

Clint gives a half-shrug, face still blank, glancing down and reaching to grab his quiver. "He didn't throw me a tea party, if that's what you're asking."

"No?" Tony says, face pinching, hands lifting, "It's not?"

Nat runs in. Assassins and their blank faces. She's not even breathing hard. "Status?"

Clint barely looks at her. "All good here."

Tony huffs. "His back is bleeding." He raises an eyebrow, head tilting toward Napier, "Unless that was his blood?"

Clint gives Tony a sharp look. "Barely bleeding. You finish the job?"

Natasha nods once, eyes thin, face blank.

"We are good to go," says Tony. He glances down. "We just gonna leave this guy here, or…?"

"I'm not carrying him," says Clint. He doesn't put his quiver on. Just holds it. Throws his bow over his shoulder instead.

Tony nods. He flips his face plate back down. "Well, let's go."

Natasha doesn't move. Tony would call it a hesitation if he wasn't absolutely certain that everything Black Widow does is deliberate. "He stabbed you in the back?" She asks Hawkeye.

Hawkeye rolls his head. "Metaphorically or literally?"

Natasha just thins her eyes a fraction.

Hawkeye sighs. "Both, yes, let's go. Be glad he didn't shoot me." He gestures everyone towards the door.

Nat walks out. Tony and Hawkeye follow. Tony tries to go last but Clint won't have any part of it.

They have to take a car to the quinjet. Normally Tony would fly ahead. Instead he clambers into the backseat, ironman suit and all—best to keep it on while in enemy territory. Clint and Nat are up front. Tony was hoping for a better look at the wound to Clint's back but Clint just takes Nat's jacket—she offered it without even looking at him—and presses it between his back and the seat and leans against the cushions.

So Tony has Jarvis pull up data on Napier. Army man. And that's basically where all useful and readable information ends. He sighs. Stares up at Clint. "You see it coming?"

"That bug that just hit the windshield? I might have sharp eyes but even I couldn't—"

"Napier."

"Oh." Clint shifts his shoulders. "He stabbed me in the back, so… no." He stares out the window."

"Was he nice to you?"

"God, Tony, this isn't an interrogation. It happened, it's done, leave it."

Tony hums. He's stiller than normal. Less restless. Heavier. "You gonna go to medical?"

Clint shifts his jaw and glares out the window.

"Bruce can—"

Clint cuts him off. "Banner's in the field with the rest of the team. And he's not a doctor, anyway. At least that's what he keeps telling me. This gonna be a problem, Stark?"

"No, no problem. I'm sure our Black Widow here knows emergency field aid. Right?"

"Barely even touched me," Clint says, but he's far too rigid. "And I can patch it up, alright? I'm not an idiot."

"I don't mean to disagree, but—"

"Shut the hell up, Stark," Clint snaps.

Natasha flicks a blank but somehow terrifying face into the rearview. "He's not an idiot," she agrees.

"Well he's not _not _an idiot."

"Stark," Clint warns. "I think you're forgetting that I know where you sleep."

Tony snorts. "Like you could ever bypass Jarvis. My vents are too small for you, Clint, I designed them that way."

"Which was a stupid thing to do because you just lost a perfectly good escape and help route. If you get stuck down there, I can't get to you."

"Down there? I live two floors higher than you, Clint."

Clint just hums.

"Well it keeps the bad guys from getting to me, doesn't it?"

"Not if they get technology like Pym has, or use little robots, or they're dwarf aliens, or—"

"Alright, I get it. Update vent security. Like the laser grids aren't enough."

Clint hasn't moved the whole time they've been driving other than to turn his head and keep it there. "All it takes is some tinfoil."

Tony frowns. "There's no way."

Clint half-shrugs.

Tony turns to Jarvis. Starts researching. "There's no way."

Clint hums. His arm shifts on the windowsill. "So about the knife thing, are we including spaces like vents? Ones that aren't technically the room but aren't technically not either?"

"Lot of spaces in the walls," Tasha comments, eyes fixed on the road.

Tony frowns. "No. Below the ceiling, above the floor, between the walls. And that's it."

The quinjet is an hour away. The longest hour of Tony's life. Well not the longest, but close. Err, maybe not close. But long. Very long.

Clint gets out fluidly if slowly. He throws his quiver on, using it to keep Widow's jacket in place with pressure.

There are no doctors this time. Just Nat and Clint and Tony. Jarvis drives.

Clint makes no move to go toward the medical supplies. He sits on one of the benches and falls into stillness.

"Um…" Tony steps out of his ironman suit. "Aren't you gonna patch that up?"

"Just a graze," Clint says. "It'll wait." Not can. Will.

Tasha gives Clint a look that Tony can't read for the life of him. "I don't think so," she says.

"It will."

"I want my jacket back."

Clint lets out a bitten off sigh. He pulls his quiver off, teeth gritted, and peels the fabric from his back. He hands it to her.

Tasha doesn't take it from him. Just looks at it. She nods to herself. "Too much blood to wait."

Clint mumbles something, dropping the jacket to the floor.

"What?" Tony asks.

Clint glares, but responds anyway. "It's deep. And I don't want—" he mumbles again.

Tony leans forward. "What? Didn't catch that last word."

"Stitches," Clint says.

Tony leans back. "Oh," he says. He looks around, not sure if he's looking for something or just avoiding Clint. His eyes fall on his own sleeve. He shoulders the clothing off and holds it out. "You want _my_ jacket? And maybe some butterfly bandages or gauze pads or something?"

"It'll scar," Nat mutters to Clint.

"Like anybody's gonna notice another one." Clint takes Tony's jacket. Smirking a little. Like he's glad to have an excuse to ruin the expensive fabric. He presses it to his back and leans against the wall.

Tasha fetches the first aid kit.

It's hours before they get back. Tony makes a note as he steps off the quinjet. "Jarvis, remind me to install bigger vents."

Clint disappears to his room and not down to medical, sans stitches because he hissed at Natasha when she tried. Insisted he didn't need or want them.

"And to revisit the medical school idea."


	4. Chapter 4

The next time Clint gets seriously hurt it's when they're captured.

Clint is gone from the cells for well over a day. Then the outer door grinds drag him in, his head drooped toward the floor, his legs dragging. He's conscious, Tony thinks, because he can hear him panting. They unlock the door to the cell between Tony and Steve and throw him in.

He hits the floor with a groan, not moving except to curl—to shield his vitals. They lock the door.

Tony is shouting, insulting the men, their mothers, the pathetic people they work for. They don't spare him a glance. The outer doors grate closed.

Tony shoots across his cell to the side Clint is on. "Clint. You good, man? What happened?"

Clint sits up, scooting until he's against the far wall—it's not far because the cells are freakin' tiny. "Interrogation, name-calling, you know… the usual." He's breathing carefully, every movement containing a stiffness that Tony doesn't like on the graceful, acrobatic archer.

"They feed you?" They'd fed the rest of them—it's just Tony and Steve. Actually just Tony because they took Steve like an hour ago.

Clint shrugs.

Tony snorts, head shaking in anger. "That's a no." He reaches into the back corner of his cell. "Saved you some." He slides it through the bars.

Clint takes it hesitantly. He uses his left hand, which is unsettling because a) he's right-handed and b) Tony is on his right side. "You swear you ate some?" Clint asks.

Tony rolls his eyes and sits back against the wall. "I'm not an idiot."

It's basically sludge but Clint doesn't seem to care. He takes slow spoonfuls. Doesn't eat all of it. He sets what's left in the corner closest to Tony. Probably so he can reach through and grab it if he needs it.

It's when Clint lays down that Tony knows it's bad. Sure he probably hasn't slept for like 48 hours, but outside the tower and quinjet—when they're out in the field—he sleeps slumped against a wall or door or whatever—never on his back like that.

"So, seriously, what did they do to you?"

"I'm fine, Tony."

Tony inches closer to the bars. "Screw that. If you don't tell me, how on earth am I supposed to make a competent escape plan?"

"They punch even worse than you do, Stark. Don't worry about it."

Tony worries more.

Cap comes back two hours later, drenched. He's moving on his own though. The lock him in his cell and leave. "Clint—" he starts.

Tony shushes him. "He's asleep."

Clint doesn't move or open his eyes. "M'awake. You okay, Cap?"

"Yeah."

"They feed you?"

"Yeah."

Clint hums. "Waterboarding?"

"In a way," Steve says.

"You throw up whatever they fed you?"

"No."

So Clint, eyes still closed, elbows the bowl through the bars and back to Tony. He uses his left arm. "Eat the rest of that."

Tony glares down at it. "I already ate my half. That's yours."

"I had my fill," Clint says.

Tony moves the glare to him. "Right."

"Just eat it, Stark."

Tony scoots the bowl into the corner of his cell. "We'll save it."

"At some point, they're gonna come in and take it away. You're gonna want to eat the rest of it before then."

They come back a few hours later and take Clint.

When they bring him back, the first thing he does is roll onto his front and cough up about five lungfuls of water.

"Clint? You okay?"

Clint huffs. Or wheezes, it's hard to tell. "In a way," he says, almost to himself, "That was funny, Cap." He coughs up more water, then wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. "Can't believe you told a joke and I missed it."

"What? What's that smile for?" Tony leans toward him, hands on the bars.

"Cap's joke. Didn't ya hear?" Clint is grinning.

Tony shakes his head. "I don't get it."

"I asked if they waterboarded him. He said 'in a way.'" Clint laughs.

Cap looks confused and analytical, like he's puzzling out what Clint is playing at. Tony frowns.

Clint gives him a pointed look, eyes flicking to the camera in the corner of the room.

He doesn't want their captors to be aware of something. "Oh. Yeah. In a way. Hahaha. That old running gag we have. So funny. I could laugh my ass off." It's something good if the assassin can't control his face. That or he's delirious.

Clint nods at him. He's fiddling with his sleeves.

"So did they waterboard you too?"

Clint smirks. "In a way."

Steve laughs.

It's not until the guards come back that Clint makes his move. They're headed for Cap but they just pass through the outer edge of Hawkeye's reach. Hawkeye whips a pen from his sleeve and jabs it through the first guard's throat. His hand dips forward as the guard falls and suddenly he's firing a taser at the other one. The guard drops.

Hawkeye goes to his knees and pulls the second guard closer, grabbing the keys on his belt. He tosses them to Cap. "Those'll be for you." He dismantles the pen and fiddles with the wire. He fishes around in guard #1's pockets and grins when his fingers pull out another pen. He dismantles it. And then he starts working the wires into the lock of his cell, grunting as he does.

Cap's out of his cell so Hawkeye points him to Tony's. "See if you can unlock Stark, huh?"

There are three keys on the chain and Tony is hopeful. But Cap tries them all and shakes his head. "They don't fit."

"Yeah," says Clint, "Figured they'd be smart enough not to bring all the keys at once. Doesn't matter, I've almost—" he tweaks his hand and his door clicks. He smiles, pushing it open and then dropping down in front of Tony's. He throws the tip part of the pen at the camera in the corner of the room, shattering the screen. Then he slips the wires into the keyhole. "Shouldn't take long. Cap, see if you can get the cover off that vent without makin' too much noise." Hawkeye doesn't point it out and Cap has to look around for a minute to locate the vent in the ceiling.

He has to jump up to rip it down, but it's not much higher than his reach. Tony's cell clicks open.

Clint aims him toward the bodies, "See what you can find. Load up on whatever might be useful. You too, Cap."

Clint heads toward the outer door of the cell block. "Keys," he demands, and Cap tosses them over. Clint locks the door.

Then he's back over by the others.

"Hey look," says Tony, "This guy's a hoarder." He pulls out a fistful of pens. "Must be a dream come true for you, huh?" He grins up at Clint.

Clint smiles broadly. "Give me those." Tony hands them over and they disappear into various pockets and folds of fabric on Clint's person. Tony takes the taser.

Clint nudges him toward the vent. "Okay, Stark, get up there. Sound's gonna carry, so we gotta keep as quiet as possible while we're in there."

Cap cups his hands and holds them out to help lift him. Then Clint comes over, and Cap is expecting him to leap off the walls and pull himself in—he usually would—but he pulls to a stop. "We're gonna want to go down a level, so try to find a place where the vent drops. Should be at the edges of the building. We're pretty square in the center right now so just choose a direction and go as straight as possible." He looks up at the vent, then back at Steve. He gives a weak little smile, "Give me a boost, Cap?"

Steve nods, face displaying almost none of his concern. He holds his hands out and helps Clint up into the vent—he's favoring his right arm, maybe his ribs—then jumps up and pulls himself in, bringing the vent cover and smashing it back into place. The others have maneuvered so that Cap leads with Tony in the middle and Clint pulling up the rear. It's a tight fight for Captain America's broad shoulders.

Cap pulls to a stop and Clint bumps into Tony. "Jesus," Tony whispers, "You're freezing. You're still soaked."

Clint grunts. "I'm well aware. Why'd we stop?"

"I found the drop."

"What, already? There's no—" He peers up as best he can, Stark's arc-reactor illuminating the vent. "Huh. These guys have some weird ventilation systems. Okay, Cap you go down first, just below the next opening so you can spot us coming down. By us, I mean Stark." He pats the inventor's shoulder.

"Right," Tony whispers harshly, "'cause you're perfectly fine. Haven't been tortured for the past two days or anything."

"What'd I tell you about sound carrying?"

"If you shut up, I'll shut up."

Clint doesn't shut up. "Brace your legs and arms against the sides and just slide down, okay?"

Cap slides down smoothly, it only a takes him a few seconds. Tony finds it more difficult, has to move slower, arms scraping and sticking against the side. His shoes weren't made for this. He slides down and climbs into the next opening, then turns to watch Clint. The archer is already out, braced against the walls.

Clint's keeping his right arm tucked against his chest. He's not using it at all.

"What's wrong with your arm?" Cap asks.

"Nothing." Hawkeye scoots down another foot, pressed mostly up against one wall with only his right leg against the other side. "It's just a little broken."

"There's no such thing as 'a little broken,'" Stark hisses up at him. "Either it's broken or it's not."

"It's a little broken."

Hawkeye slides down but the opening is on his right and he's having a hard time working out how to tip his weight that way with one arm out of commission. "I might need a little help," he admits.

Cap is ready for it. "Slide down towards me," he says, hands up and waiting.

Clint slides down.

"Put your arm around me." Cap reaches his own arm up and snakes it beneath Clint's shoulder and around his torso. Clint slides only an inch when he lifts his good arm from the wall and pulls it around Cap's neck.

Cap steadies him with a frown. "Clint, you're shaking."

"I'm a little cold."

Cap shifts his weight to his left, pulling Clint closer to the opening. Clint's torso hits the edge and the archer moves his arm up and over Cap's shoulders, twisting, reaching for it while Cap supports most of his weight. Tony fists his hands in the back of Clint's shirt and helps pull him into the vent. Cap climbs up after. This vent is much larger.

Clint is panting on his hand and knees, his right arm still plastered to his side, "Just give me a minute." His breathing sounds wet.

Cap rests a hand on his back. "You can have five. Do we need to set that arm?"

Clint shakes his head. "It's in place."

"I can make you a sling."

"I'm good, cap. Thanks."

"Why didn't you tell us your arm was broken?" Tony whisper-asks.

"It's only a little broken."

"Oh shut up. You know the danger of hiding wounds."

Clint doesn't respond. Just pants.

"Is this why you were bringing up the rear?" asks Tony.

Clint shakes his head. "Just made sense. You have the light. Cap has the strength to punch out a vent cover." Clint takes a few more deep breaths, coughing a little. He straightens as much as he can. "I'm good now," he says.

"I gave you five minutes," says Cap.

Tony agrees. "Put it in the escape schedule and everything." He shrugs. "We'll just have to wait, I guess."

Clint shakes his head. But he rotates, sitting down and leaning back against the vent.

Cap watches him carefully. "Anything else a little broken?"

Clint shrugs. "I honestly don't know right now. Maybe some ribs. Nothing else, I don't think."

Cap nods. "Can you breathe okay? Water in your lungs?"

"I think I'm good on that count."

Tony's focused gaze is on him as well. "You're cold, though."

"Yeah," the archer admits. "Yeah, I am cold. But it's not like you guys are doin' much better."

Tony and Cap share a look.

"Actually," Tony starts, "We—"

"Shut up," says Clint. He shifts forward. "That's five minutes."

"Not even close," Tony says, shaking his head.

Clint sighs. "Guys if we stay here, they're gonna find us. They're probably searching vents already."

"Take off your shirt," says Tony, ignoring him. "It's soaked. I'll give you mine."

Tony tries hard not to think too much on the hopeful look Clint gives him. "Really?"

"Yeah." Tony lifts off his t-shirt, revealing the tank-top underneath.

Clint pulls his shirt over his head and uses his teeth to pull it off his left arm. Cap helps. They slide it carefully over his right arm.

Clint's chest is a dark mass of bruises. His arms too.

"Lean forward," says Cap.

"Why?"

"I wanna see your back."

Tony has to go around to shed light on it. His back is even worse. "Jesus," he says, hands hovering, "What did they do?"

Clint shrugs. "Shirt, Stark."

Tony hands it to him and Clint slips it over his right arm and then pulls it on.

Tony points a finger at him. "But you're in the middle this time."

Clint rolls his eyes. "Yeah, sure, whatever."

Tony leads with the light and Clint follows. Cap brings up the rear. Clint is crawling on three limbs and it looks like a pain. Looks tiring.

Cap's about to suggest a break when Tony stops. A grate is in front of him. "Guys, I think this leads outside."

It takes some maneuvering but Cap gets to the front and clears the way. They come out right on the ground, crawling across dirt and grass to get out.

It's brighter than Clint was expecting. "We should find a car." He shivers a little, but his left hand dips into his pockets and pulls out several pens that he starts disassembling, fingers trembling slightly.

Tony glances at him, worry eating at his insides. He turns the glance to Steve, but Steve just nods him on, setting a hand on Clint's shoulder to lead him forward because Clint's focusing all his energy on fiddling with the wires from the pens, twisting them together.

They turn the corner of the building and find a parking lot, heading for a back corner.

Clint grunts turning the wrist of his right hand, and pulls the wires up to twist them with his mouth instead. He cuts his lip.

"Hey," Tony snaps, "Give me that." He holds a hand out.

Clint shakes his head, not stopping. "I'm almost done." He bends the end of the long wire he's made and then pads forward to the nearest car and slides the wire into the frame beside the window, trying to jimmy the lock with his left hand.

He gets it within a minute, a smirk spreading across his face. He scoots into the driver's seat and start rifling through the containers in the doors and seats. "No keys, but we have…" he rifles a front pocket and grins. "Scissors." He pulls them out, then bends down, grunting—hurt ribs—pulling wires from beneath the steering wheel. He has to use both hands, and his face is pinched in pain.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hey, no," Tony shoves Clint into the middle seat as he slides himself in, "I can hotwire it," he snags the scissors from Clint's hands, already bending down into the footwell, "Just give me a second to figure out this model."

Steve opens the door on the passenger side and slides in. Tony closes his own door. He hotwires the car without a problem.

Clint reaches forward and turns the heat up all the way the moment the car comes on, arms hugging his chest. Steve scoots close enough for his side to be pressed up against Clint's and Clint leans into him.

Tony pulls them out slowly, trying not to draw attention, heading out—it's just a normal building with a normal parking lot leading out to the road, no gate entrance or anything, seriously? He shrugs and stops at the entrance to the road. "Where do you suppose the nearest phone is?"

"There's a few buildings five miles East of here," says Cap, "Saw them coming in."

Tony bobs his head and turns right.

The car starts to warm up. Clint starts shivering harder. "Why's it so cold in here?"

Steve puts an arm around his shoulder and draws him in closer, sharing a look with Tony. "I think you're mildly hypothermic." He starts rubbing Clint's back. "Your pants are still wet, and those vents had cold airflow."

Clint burrows into Steve's chest with a groan. "It's freezing."

Steve wraps him a hug, still rubbing his back, "I know."

Tony glances over at then with a pinch between his eyebrows. He adjusts the vents on his side to aim them all at Clint.

They get separated when they finally get evacuated out of there. Or at least that what the medics are trying to do, but there's this look on Clint's face. His eyes are just a fraction too wide. He has a resting bitch face, but that's not what that is. He looks like he's still in enemy territory. Maybe he is.

"Hey," Tony snaps to the medic that Clint keeps shaking off. The one trying to lead the archer down a hallway. "We get the same room. All three of us. Can't afford separate ones, I'm afraid, just don't have the money for a fancy facility like this."

Clint smirks. It's subtle, but it's there.

Tony presses on. "You treat us all in the same room and nobody comes in without my say so."

The medic glares. She tugs at Clint's left arm. Clint shakes her off again. "You heard the man, I'm staying here. Treat me or don't."

Tony slips between them, chin raised at the woman. "I want to see your credentials first." He glances around the room. "All your credentials."

"He could be bleeding into his—"

"Credentials first. Unless he passes out and even then you don't touch him unless me or someone I approve is in the room."

Clint huffs a little behind him. Might be laughter, actually. He's shivering still.

"And get us some blankets and heat packs for heaven's sake."

And three hours later when they're more or less sorted and Tony is an inch from sleep, Clint breathes out, "Thanks, Tony."


	5. Chapter 5

Clint's had bad handlers before; ones that push him to breaking, ones with crappy suicide or get-yourself-captured plans, ones that hate him for his reputation or for Fury's disregard for some of the things he's done. But he's never had a handler hate him quite so much before.

"Sir, I would urge you to reconsider this course of action." Hawkeye preps his bow for the shot, but this is a messed up plan and he knows it.

"Are you questioning me, Barton?" Walker's voice is like a growl over the coms.

"No, sir. Just urging you to reconsider."

"You think you know better than me because you're on a team of disorganized power-hitters? No. Take the shot, Barton, or you'll be on a fast track down to level one and even your super-friends won't want you anymore."

Clint has to refrain from rolling his eyes. "Ouch, that hurts." He adjusts his aim to the left of where it's 'supposed' to be. He'd rather dive through the open window than smash into the brick wall, thank you very much. He releases the arrow. "Oops."

"Barton, what the hell?! I told you—"

"Too late now, we'll have to adjust our plan of action. Looks like the shot lined itself up with the third story. According to intel, that's right where command is. What is your recommendation, sir?"

"Shoot again," Walker demands.

"Sorry, sir, that was my last zipline arrow."

"So improvise. I hear you're good at that."

Clint holds back his comment, jaw stiff. "Yessir."

Clint throws his bow over the zipline already in the air and leaps forward. His body is bending the fibers with his weight but the rope was built to hold. He's halfway across when the tension of the rope drops to zero and then he's falling. "Shit." He lets go of his bow in the scramble to get his hands on the rope and then he's yanked backwards, twisting midair so that he slams into the wall with his side instead of his back where the quiver could snap his spine. He grunts when he hits it, hands slipping just a little, but he latches back on and stops his descent. His bow is in pieces on the ground fifty feet below.

"The hell was that?" He's not on the destination building. Clint pulls himself hand over hand up the rope to the top, sort of—only one hand is really working. He shimmies up.

"I told you not to do that," Walker growls.

"Christ, y_ou_ shot me down?! I was gonna scale the wall on the other side so I went in where you wanted! You told me to improvise!" Clint rolls over the top. He can't feel his shoulder beyond spiking pain; dislocated.

"I told you to take another shot."

Oh, Hawkeye is pissed. "You could've killed me!"

"Take another shot."

"No way in hell. This plan is screwed six ways to Sunday and shooting me down is a cooperation killer. I'm injured and going in now would be suicidal."

"You're prepared to take the demotion, then."

"Over dying."

It's not a demotion. Walker can't swing it after the way things went down. The both get suspended for a week.

Clint walks out and toward the quinjet scheduled to descend in an hour.

He goes to the tower. Descends through the vents, dropping down into the common room. No one blinks. Well, Tony does.

"Should you be doing that?" Stark points up to the vent he just fell from, then pulls up something on his stark-pad. "I could've sworn I just read that you dislocated your knee and shoulder."

Hawkeye grins and shrugs. "Like that's gonna stop me." He points to the tablet, "Should you have access to those files?"

Stark snorts. "Like that's gonna stop me." He sifts through the files. "Wait a second, this wasn't—"

Clint shoots forward and snatches the tablet.

Stark reaches for it. "Give that back."

"No way."

Clint hops up on the counter to keep it out of his reach, and then into the vent above them when Tony follows. He locks the file and then drops the tablet through the vent.

Tony catches it a little haphazardly. "What did you just do?" He goes to open the file. "You locked it?" He stabs at the device. "What language is this code?"

Clint smiles.

Tasha is staring at him with narrowed eyes. She sidles up to Stark and holds her hand out, "Let me."

"Tasha, no."

Stark plops it into her hand. A moment later, she hands it back.

Clint drops onto the counter with a sigh.

Tony takes a moment to sift through the information. His face twists in alarm. "Someone shot you down? Someone on your team?!"

Tasha darkens, scanning the same data. "Your new handler?"

Bruce walks over, face pinched with concern. Steve is right behind him.

Clint rolls his eyes. "He shot the rope I was on. He didn't actually shoot _me_ down."

Tony opens the file bigger. "Uh, that's exactly what he did. You fell like thirty feet."

"I didn't fall. I… swang."

"You swang." Tony raises an eyebrow.

Clint nods. "Like Spiderman."

"Right. Because if you had fallen," Stark scrolls down. "You would have fallen a hundred feet."

"Seventy two."

Steve is in his cap persona, standing straight, face carefully blank. "Your handler shot you down?"

Hawkeye uses his hands to explain. "I was ziplining. The rope broke."

Tony shakes his head. "Broke. Right. Have you seen these transcripts? He basically admits it. And you definitely think he did it. You accuse him like five times."

"What's his name?" Bruce is squinting over Tony's shoulder. "They just call him by his designation."

Clint shakes his head. "I'm not gonna—"

"Walker," says Nat.

"Tasha!"

"Well he's getting fired," says Tony, already pulling up information on him. Something appears in the bottom corner. "Wait, looks like they just added video." He moves to click it.

Clint grabs his wrist. "Tony."

Tasha clicks it, faster than Clint can stop. Bruce and Steve crowd in to see.

The camera is from a bird's-eye-view. Possibly the helicarrier itself. They watch his half of the conversation. Then the recorded Clint shoots toward the window and Tony smirks.

Video Clint jumps off and glides and then suddenly plummets. Tony swears as they watch his hands scramble for the rope. "You barely caught that." Video Clint slams into the wall.

Bruce frowns up toward real Clint as the video ends. "Is that how you dislocated your knee and shoulder? There wasn't even a mission?"

Clint nods. "Shoulder popped when the rope caught my weight. Knee when I hit the wall."

"Be glad it wasn't worse, Jesus." Tony replays the video, squinting into the corner. "He actually shot you down. You can see him taking aim right there, look." He points, glaring at the handler. "You could've died."

"I didn't."

The others have tilted back. Tony pulls up a slew of files, a 'Walker' label splayed across several. He gets to work.

"Your bow?" Tasha asks.

Clint shakes and bows his head, putting a hand over his heart, "Didn't survive the fall."

"I'll build you a new one," says Tony, fingers dancing across the screen. "Right after I get this guy fired."

"He already got suspended."

"Makes it that much easier, then."

But the only effect Tony has is to get Clint assigned a new handler, one more disciplined and angry than Walker ever was.

Tony doesn't know this, of course. Not until they're walking off the quinjet four months later, suited up, ready to go, and Hawkeye falls into Cap's side, hands grabbing onto the taller man's shoulders as his legs buckle. Steve shoots his hands out to support him. "Whoa. Clint?"

Clint straightens back up part-way, "What? What?" His voice is confused, like he's just woken up and isn't sure what's going on. His eyes roll back and Cap is hard-pressed to catch his weight. "Whoa, okay." Steve lowers him down slowly, Clint half-conscious, trying to help, but his legs are almost limp. He's panting.

"Clint, are you hurt? What's wrong?"

The others press in closer. The hand of Tony's suit transforms and then he's pricking a needle into Clint's skin, drawing a drop of blood. "Jarvis," he demands, and then to the team, "His vitals are all over the place. Glucose levels almost nonexistent. He's dehydrated. And… are your ribs broken?! Your ribs are broken, yep. Three of them."

Clint groans. He shoves at Steve, who's trying to force him to put his head between his legs. "I'm good. Let's go."

Cap shakes his head. "You're not good, Clint. You're sitting this one out."

Clint shakes his head, still panting, his whole body rolling as he tries to stand back up. He doesn't make it far, slumping back down. "Kormick said I can do it. I'm good—I—he said I'm good."

Steve has a hand on Clint's shoulder. "Who's Kormick?"

"His new handler." Natasha's face is dark. "When's the last time you slept, Clint? Or ate?"

Clint shrugs. He curls down and groans. "Kormick said I have to do this. He's gonna deport me if I don't… not deport. That's not the word. It—he's gonna send me away."

"No one's sending you anywhere, Clint." Steve turns, "Bruce, take him back to the quinjet."

"I have to… I have to do this."

Steve shakes his head. "No, Clint. You're a liability like this. Get some food and water and rest. Take care of yourself. We can handle this."

Clint groans. He puts his head in his hands. "Okay. You're gonna… you'll tell Kormick? Tell him I was gonna do it? That it's not my fault?"

Tony's face plate flips, his eyes glinting darkly. "Oh, I'll tell him."

Steve helps Clint up and then Bruce steps in to lend him some support, a hand on his back. They walk back to the quinjet and Natasha's hands fist as she hears Bruce's mumbled, "Oh my god, Clint, you're shaking."

"So," says Tony, "Let's make this fast because I have work to do."

The mission goes off with only about five hitches, which is probably twelve fewer than what they're used to. That's what it feels like, anyway.

And they're sitting in the quinjet on the way back, Clint sleeping in the corner, and Tony looking at Shield files. "Natasha," Tony says.

She hums.

"Do you like your handler?"

Tasha stares straight ahead. "Do you think I'm supposed to?" She doesn't move, but there's something heavier in her form.

So they get to the helicarrier and Bruce and Nat go with Clint and Tony flies the ironman suit right into Fury's office.

"I'm their handler now," Ironman tells him. "Every mission, every meeting, every interaction with another agent goes through me. Medical goes through me. I approve their supplies and their schedules and whatever else I think of." He's got both arms on the table, standing tall and powerful, ready for an all-out war.

Fury leans back in his seat, face unreadable. "What took you so long?" he asks.

Shield doesn't bother Clint after that. Doesn't bother anyone in Stark's messed up family of gods and spies and super-soldiers. Heaven help anyone who does.


End file.
